A Summer of Two Stans
by HaloEssence111
Summary: Summer, nineteen sixty something- School's out, and the Pines twins are ready to have an amazing summer; working on the Stan 'o War, exploring the beach, and simply being brothers. But after a worse than usual run-in with the neighborhood bullies, their father decides they need to toughen up and signs the twins up for boxing lessons. Some angst, brotherly fluff, NO STANCEST.
1. School's Out

**Hey everyone! This is my first Gravity Falls fanfic. This is something I've been thinking of for a while now, and have finally gotten around to writing. The chapters will be in both Stan and Ford's POV's (i.e. chapter one: stan, chapter two: ford, etc.)**

 **To me, Stan and Ford's relationship is one of the most interesting I've seen, ever. It's not often that you find a sibling duo that actually get along (granted, they did get in a forty-year-old fight, but that's beside the point). And I loved seeing their brotherly chemistry during 'A Tale of Two Stans'. I hope you liked it too, because this story is all about sibling love (NO STANCEST).**

 **DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.**

 **...**

 **BRRRIIIINNGG…**

The gleeful shouts of children were heard as the doors of Jersey Middle School opened for summer vacation. And no one was shouting louder or happier than Stanley Pines.

Finally, after months of boring classes, detention, and putting up with his idiot teachers, he was free, free, FREE! Nothing in the future but fun on the beach with his best friend in the world. Stan hunted through the mob of liberated school children until he caught sight of a brown haired, bespectacled boy he knew only too well.

"Ford! Hey, Ford!" shouted Stan, running over to meet him.

"Can you believe it, Sixer?" exclaimed Stanley, giving his twin a playful noogie. "It's over! No more homework or or tests or stupid teachers 'till eighth grade!"

Stanford nodded excitedly. "And just imagine all the things we're going to do this summer! I've always wanted to find out if New Jersey's had any ghost sightings…"

"We could try breaking rocks apart to find gold and get rich!" said Stan, gesticulating wildly.

"Plus, there's the Stan 'o War. We'll have plenty of time to work on it now that school's out." said Ford. "Can you believe that it's been an entire year since we started working on it?"

"Woah, that long?" said Stan. "That's amazing! At this rate, we'll be treasure hunters before school starts again!"

The boys that reached the front door of the family pawn shop and walked inside. Their father was doing business with customer, so they didn't interrupt him. They walked upstairs to the apartment, chattering all the way but stopping when they heard their mother on the phone with one of her psychic clients.

"Listen pal, if ya wants me to see if your wife's a cheater, I ain't doing it for free, got it?... Well, maybe if ya weren't such a freeloading cheapskate, she wouldn't be sleeping around!... Yeah, I predicted you'd say that. Good riddance, ya loony."

Their mother hung up the phone in a huff, but quickly smiled when she saw her twins.

"Hiya boys, how was school?" she asked heading into the kitchen.

"Great!" said Stan, spreading some peanut butter on a piece of bread and adding bananas. His mother raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, that sure ain't something I hear every day. Why was today great?"

"Imf wath thath lathts thay a thool, Ma!" said Stan, his mouth full of peanut butter.

"Wassat? Say that again, kiddo."

Stan swallowed. "Today was the last day of school!"

His mother laughed. "Aw, that's it. No wonder you're so happy. So, what're you boys gonna do if ya don't have no homework now?"

Ford, who was searching in the fridge for a snack, peeked his head out. "Everything, Ma! We're gonna work on our boat and find ghosts and get rich and-"

"Hey, calm down, poindexter!" laughed Stan. "Don't give away all our plans yet!"

"Well, I gots a plan for you," said their mother with a smirk. "Hows about you two get your room cleaned by the end of the summer? I've forgotten what color your carpet is."

Pfft. Like they were ever going to clean that room. "Yeah, yeah, sure ma, whatever. Come on Ford, we've got a date with destiny!"

The twins ran to their messy bedroom, climbing overtop their toys and dirty clothes scattered across the floor. In the corner next to their shared bunk bed was a blanket fort labeled 'Fort Stan', a handprint poster taped on the wall next to it. Near the closet, a tall wooden bookshelf crammed with books was bolted to the wall alongside a low wood dresser. On top of the dresser were dozens of trophies, medals, and framed certificates. Another dresser of equal size stood next to it; unlike the former, the top of this one only had a few ragged comic books and an empty bag of toffee peanuts. Stanley dumped his backpack onto his rumpled bedsheets, some of the contents spilling out.

"Alright bro, so the first thing we have to do is find adventure and become rich and famous. Chicks dig guys who are rich and famous. Then we finish building the Stan 'O War and use our money and fame to sail around the world and get even richer and famouser. Then-"

"Slow down, Lee!" said Ford, pulling out a notebook and pencil from his backpack. "I gotta write this stuff down. So first, have adventures-"

"That make us rich and famous! Don't forget that part!"

"I know, I know!"

The two continued their list, Ford writing it down and Stan thinking up wild ideas. He knew that they'd probably never finish half of them, but just saying that they were going to discover Bigfoot or get in a gunfight with a cowboy was fun by itself. Several items throughout the list involved getting girlfriends or saving beautiful women from horrible monsters (and Crampelter). What could he say, he liked girls. Too bad none of them seemed to like him back.

After forty-five minutes and three sides of paper, Stanley's imagination was finally spent (which was really saying something). And just in time; they could smell the tantalizing scent of bean 'n franks wafting in from the kitchen.

"Boys! Come set the table!" hollered their mother.

"Coming!" they said in unison.

The two ran into the kitchen, Stan taking big, satisfying sniffs .

"Mmm… smells great, Ma." he said.

"Good. Now go help your brother."

Stanford had already begun setting the four places around their small dining table. Stanley hurriedly started helping, filling up a pitcher with water and passing around napkins. He could hear his father closing up shop downstairs.

Stan and Ford finished with the table and sat down. Mr. Pines tromped into the kitchen, his face stoic and unyielding as usual. Their mother went around the table serving up everyone's plate before sitting down to eat herself. The family tucked into their meal, Stan relishing the spicy taste of his mother's beans 'n wieners.

"So boys, didja do anything special today at school?" she asked.

Stanley shrugged. To be honest, he hadn't really been paying attention to anything but the clock.

It was Ford who spoke first. "Miss Krugel gave us a last pop quiz of the year." The last of many. Some days, Stan thought that that woman was trying to see how many pop quizzes she could cram into the year before he snapped.

"Was it very hard?" said their mom. Stanford shook his head, and Stanley just shrugged. Like he was going to tell her that he had turned the paper into spitballs the minute he got it. There are some things you just keep to yourself at times like these.

"Did she say anything about your report cards?" asked their father gruffly.

Stan froze. He didn't know what his grades were at the moment, but if they were anything like the last progress report, he was in trouble.

"Um…" said Ford, taking a peek at his twin's slightly panicked expression. "Uh, no, she didn't mention it."

Stan let of a breath of relief. Good 'ol sixer. Their Dad looked a bit skeptical, but seemed to take Ford's word for it.

"Well then," he said, crossing his arms. "Let me make it clear that if I see another failing grade on anyone's report, _I will not be pleased._ Understood?"

"Yessir." said the twins simultaneously. Stan knew that his father was mostly speaking to him. Last time he failed a class, Stanley wasn't able to sit down for a week. Fortunately, Ford was willing to tutor him where he was struggling.

The rest of dinner was fairly normal. Afterwords, the brothers dug out a package of chocolate chip cookies for dessert and headed to the TV. Stanley was in such a good mood that when Ford turned on Sci-Fi Mystery Theater, he didn't even tease him about it. Much.

And suddenly the television set went dark.

"Hey, what gives?" asked Stan to no one in particular. "Is this thing broken or something? Hey poindexter, come see if this thing is broken."

"No need." said their mother, coming out from behind the set. "It's just unplugged Stanley."

"What? Why?"

"It's time for yous two to be getting to bed. It's already nine 'o clock."

"Aw, mom!" whined Stan. It's summer vacation!"

"Please can't we stay up just a _little_ longer?" begged Ford.

"Nope. I don't care what season it is, both of yous are going to bed at a reasonable hour. Besides, my soaps are coming on soon. Now go get ready for bed." The boys did as they were told, however reluctantly.

"So, poindexter, what should we do first tomorrow?" asked Stan, getting into bed. Ford climbed up the ladder to the top bunk.

"What if we go to the dump and collect parts for the Stan o' War?" he said.

"Yeah! Hey, maybe if we find a dumpster rat, Mom'll let us keep him!"

"I don't think so."

"Hmm… you're right. What if it was a dead rat? Ya think she'd prefer a dead rat?"

"Goodnight Stanley."

"'Night, Ford."

Right above Stan's head, taped to the bottom of the top bunk, was a picture of him and his twin, laughing together. Stan smiled.

Everything felt just about perfect.


	2. Lucky(?) in Love

**DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.**

It was official; Stanford Pines loved summer.

Sure, school was great, too. He loved the feeling he got when he understood things, like he could learn and comprehend everything. But no amount of knowledge could compare with just spending time with his brother.

For as long as he could remember, Stanley had always been by his side, no matter what. They'd had their share of arguments, of course- nobody's perfect- but at the end of the day, Ford knew that Stan would always be there for him.

This past week of vacation had been incredible. The duo had gone spelunking, exploring the beach, and even dumpster diving (their mom nearly had a fit that time around). Today was Monday, allowance day. They only received 50 cents each, but that was more than enough, seeing as just about everything in this town was dirt cheap, anyway.

"So sixer, what's on the agenda today?" asked Stan, his two front teeth showing in his boyish grin.

"Well, I have a few books to return to the library. Plus, I've had my eye on a reference guide to the Bermuda triangle…"

Stanley groaned. "Ford, it's summer vacation!"

"So?"

" _So_ , you don't do nerdy bookworm stuff like _reading_ during summer! It's like a law or something!..I think."

Ford doubted that, but he didn't bother to press the topic. He knew Stan too well to try and argue with him about any type of school-related matter.

"The pizza place is right across the street from the library. Maybe you can use some of our allowance money to get lunch while I do my book thing. Until then, let's work on the Stan 'o War some more. I had a great idea for a steering mechanism..."

This seemed to pacify Stan for the moment. "Sure! Come on, bro, we're burning daylight!"

The morning was spent working on one of the smaller docks, fixing up their makeshift boat with pieces of driftwood and a few bent nails; all the supplies they had managed to find.

"Hey, Fordster, you hungry yet? 'Cause I am." said Stan after about two and a half hours of working. Now that he noticed it, Stanford did feel a bit peckish. "You wanna go get that pizza?"

"Sure."

They put away their tools and the remainder of their building materials and headed for town. They passed Knuckle's Sandwiches and the dance club, where they had discovered two days ago that they were apparently 'underage', whatever that was supposed to mean. They were technically teenagers, as of April 15, so neither of them really understood why they'd been kicked to the curb. But no matter. They had both just shrugged off the snub (y'know, after they had been caught trying to break in. Twice).

The two reached the front of the pizza place. "What kind of pizza do you want?" asked Stan.

"Pineapple."

"Excuse me?"

"I said pineapple. Canadian bacon and pineapple."

"...No. Just no."

"Why not?"

"Pineapple on pizza is a sin against all that is good and pure. It is bad and you should feel bad."

"Says the guy who dunks his french fries into his milkshakes."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You are so weird."

"Look who's talking."

Ford gave Stanley a playful punch in the arm and they parted ways, laughing. Ford headed across the street to the tiny town library, squeezed between the post office and the liquor store. Inside was old Mrs. Wendell at the checkout counter, whom he knew quite well, but over stacking books on the shelf was a much younger girl that he never seen before, about sixteen or seventeen by the look of it. She was very pretty, her long wavy brown hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She wore a knee length brown pleated skirt, a snugly fitting purple sweater, and knee-high white socks with high top sneakers. A small pair of red cat eye spectacles sat primly on her slightly pointed nose. She wore no makeup, but didn't seem to need any.

She was the most beautiful girl Stanford had ever seen in his life.

Not for the first time, he desperately wished for his brother's confidence when it came to girls. _If Stan were here, he'd just walk up to her and start talking. If he can do, then… so can I!_

Ford took a deep breath, jutted out his chest, and walked up to her as casually as he could.

"U-um…" he started, feeling his confidence slowly deflating as she turned to him.

"Yes? May I help you?" She asked kindly, smiling down at him. Ford's mouth felt full of sawdust, and he could only nod awkwardly.

"Do you need help finding a book?" Another nod.

"Which one?"

Stanford mustered up all his courage and managed to squeak out 'Bermuda Triangle'. She seemed to understand what he meant and led him over to the reference area, quickly finding the book and handing it to him.

"There you go. Happy reading!" She shot another warm smile at him, and Ford's knees threatened to buckle beneath him. He ambled over to the checkout counter and turned over his book to Mrs. Wendell, who promptly stamped it and handed it back.

"Who- who's _that_?" he whispered, careful to keep his voice low so the girl, who was back to re-stacking books, wouldn't hear him.

"Her?" said Mrs. Wendell. "That's Gertie Gibbons. She just started working here part time."

 _Gertie…_

 _What a nice name._

Stanford snapped himself out of it. He muttered some thanks to Mrs. Wendell for the book and hurried out of the library. He ran back across the street to the pizza place, where his brother was just leaving.

"Hey bro, here's your pizza. Yeah, I got ya the pineapple kind. Still can't see how you can stand the stuff… uh, Ford? What's wrong with your face?"

Stanford hadn't realized that he had started grinning from ear to ear. "Nothing," he said quickly, scurrying over to a table outside the store. "Let's eat."

He shoved the pizza into his mouth and began to chew. Stan looked a little bewildered, but slowly did the same. They ate in slow silence, until finally both of them were finished.

"So… you wanna go back to the Stan 'o War?" asked Stanley.

"S-sure…" Ford couldn't help but be a little distracted.

 _I think I'm going back to the library tomorrow._

 **...**

"Dude, what is going on with you?"

Yesterday was the fifth day in a row that he had gone to the library, and he had just told his twin that he was heading there again. Every day he had gotten a huge stack of books, just so that he'd have an excuse to hang around Gertie, to whom he had just summoned the guts to talk to (why, just two days ago, he began speaking in comprehensible sentences). He could tell that Lee was getting frustrated, though.

"What are you talking about?" answered Ford, deciding it would be safest just to play dumb this time around.

Stanley gaped at him slightly. "Are you kidding me, man? Even _you_ don't go to the library this often! Give it to me straight, sixer- _what the heck is going on_?"

"Nothing! Nothing is going on!" Ford didn't know why he was trying to hide this from his twin. He just didn't feel comfortable sharing this at the moment.

Stanley just stared at him incredulously. "Wait, you're really not gonna tell me?" Ford didn't answer. Stanley's face lost all expression. Stanford turned away, feeling a bit ashamed.

"Well then, it's settled." said Stan, hands on his hips.

"What's settled?" asked Ford.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm coming with you to that library. You're holding out on me, and I want to find out why. Let's go."

Stanford froze. "Wait, Stan! You really don't want to go there! It's… boring, and um, uh… nerd stuff! You wouldn't like it! Stop!"

This only seemed to make his brother even more determined. Ford held onto his arm and tried in vain to anchor him where he was, but Lee was much stronger, not to mention sweaty. All along the way to the library, Ford begged and pleaded, but Stanley didn't falter even once. He burst through the library's front door, his twin still struggling to drag him away. Stan shook him off and took a good look around; he caught sight of Gertie and his bright brown eyes lit up. He trotted over to Mrs. Wendell.

"Hey, ya know who that is?" asked Stan, pointing to Gertie and not bothering to keep his voice down.

"You too? Wooda thought yer brother'd tell ya… that there's Gertie Gibbons, she works around here nowadays."

Stan turned to a beet red Ford, grinning. Stanford pulled his brother outside, where he just started laughing.

"I get it now!" said Stan between snorts. "You _**like**_ her, don't you?" His brother's embarrassed silence spoke for itself.

"Aw man, this is rich. _Ford and Gertie, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…_ "

"Stanley, shut up already, someone might hear!" Stan stopped singing, but he wouldn't stop laughing.

"Dude, she's a high school girl! There's not a chance in the world that she likes you back! Now, if we were talking about me…"

Ford bristled. His sense of logic told him that what his brother said was probably true, but stubborn pride told him that Stan must be opposed.

"Oh, what do you know, wise guy? Maybe she doesn't care about age. Maybe she likes me for my personality." Stan nearly fell over for laughing.

"You'll see, you'll see Stanley, tomorrow I'll… um…" Ford struggled to think of something to say.

"I'll ask her on a date!"

Stan stopped laughing long enough for a shocked and slightly awed expression to come over him.

"You're kidding. You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. I-I'm gonna do it. And mark my words, Stanley, I'm going to get her to accept if it's the last thing I do!"

"Wait a minute, you're actually serious." said Stan, the amused look sliding off his face. Ford nodded, knowing that there was no return at this point. It was getting late; Ford's watch said four-thirty.

"Come on, let's just go home. And believe me, Gertie won't be laughing tomorrow when I ask her." he grouched, dragging his twin away from the library. A dusty red pickup truck pulled up in front of the library, and the driver honked the horn twice. A tall, muscular teenage boy wearing a baseball cap and a flannel shirt emerged.

The door of the library flew open, and out came Gertie. The teenage boy swept her into a wild embrace, and the pair slipped into the red pickup together. Ford could see them snuggling inside as the car chugged away, and felt his heart plunge into his stomach.

The twins stood there for a minute, motionless, until Stan spoke up.

"Just some brotherly advice, Fordster- I don't think she'll be accepting that date anytime soon."

"Oh, shut up."

 **So I thought I'd give you guys a bit of cute Stanford fluff before I bring in the heavy stuff. And just so you know, Gertie will not be a recurring character. She was only meant to be a short term crush of Ford's and will not be playing any part in the plot.**

 **Next chapter might not come for a little while, so sit tight and be ready for the wave of angst.**


	3. Turning Points

**DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.**

 **...**

The evening was warm and humid, darkening ever so slightly as Stan and Ford walked out of the theater. Ford hadn't much cared for the movie; there was absolutely no story and the scenery in it was unrealistically clean. But at least it had taken his mind off of… the person whose name he refused to think about. Not like Stanley was ever going to let him forget about her anytime soon.

Ford checked his watch; 7:10, almost time for dinner. They had better be heading home.

As they passed The Happy Cavity sweet shop, Stan stopped to look in the window. He licked his lips and turned to Ford.

"Wait here a minute, I'll be right back." he said. "You want anything?"

"Sure." Ford replied, tossing his twin a quarter. "Just get me a chocolate bar or something."

Stanley nodded and headed inside, leaving Ford alone outside. After several minutes of being bored with nothing to do, he walked over to the second hand bookstore a few doors down, browsing around the book stand in front of the shop. Propped on it's side in the heap of novels, a beat up paperback entitled _War of the Worlds_ caught his eye. Eagerly, he picked it up and began to read, squinting through the dim evening light. He had barely finished the first page when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

 _Must be Stan… about time._ He thought, smiling as he peered up over the top of the book. To his horror, his eyes did not meet with the familiar bright brown ones that belonged to his brother. Almost covered beneath a mop of yellow hair, a pair of watery gray eyes viewed down at him from nearly half a foot up.

"Well, well, if it ain't loser twin number one." sneered Crampelter. "Long time, no see."

 **...**

Stanley sauntered through the candy aisles, searching for a bag of toffee peanuts. He had already picked out a regular old chocolate bar for Ford, so all that was left to buy was his snack. He knew that he should hurry up, as the shop was closing in only fifteen minutes. The movie he and his brother saw was okay, just one of those beach party flicks with no plot; but hey, it had cute girls in bikinis and and some dancy songs, so Stan was satisfied.

He didn't think he could say the same for Ford, though. His brother had always preferred the serious, action-adventure sort of thing, instead of just having a little mindless fun every now and then. And ever since the 'Gertie incident' (or as poindexter called it, 'the thing which I'd like to never ever think about again so shut up already'), Stanford hadn't been too friendly towards the topic of girls. As much as Stan hated to admit it, teasing his brother about his lady love was beginning to lose it's appeal.

Trying his best to look casual, Stanley fervently searched the street for his twin. In between every store was an alleyway for the dumpsters and other related effects. It wasn't too unusual at night to hear a racoon scuffling through the trash cans, or to see shady figures arguing in hushed tones. So when Stan passed between the bookstore and the grocer's and saw a group of tall boys laughing, he didn't think much of it. That is, until he heard a very familiar whimper.

Peeking into the alley curiously, Stan ducked behind the green metal dumpster and crouched down, careful not to be seen or heard.

"C'mon fingers, try and hit me. Go ahead, I dare you."

"Get…offa...me!"

A sneering cackle rang out, chilling Stan to the bone. Those.. those… _buttheads_ were messing with his brother! Oooh, were they gonna get it…

Disregarding any caution, Stan stepped out from behind the dumpster and ran at a bully with a black leather jacket, tackling him to the ground.

" **LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BIG JERKS!** " shouted Stan, trying to punch every inch of the kid he had jumped on. This didn't last long, as the boy was almost a head taller and much stronger. Quickly, he pinned Stan's arm behind his back and slammed him against the hard brick wall. Stanley tried to squeeze out of the boy's grasp, but to no avail.

"Whaddaya know, the dumb one's come to protect his nerdy brother. That's cute." said Crampelter, crossing his arms.

Stanford was laid out on the cement, a short, heavy-looking boy sitting on top of his stomach. He tried to push the boy off, but he must've weighed too much, because the kid only laughed at his attempts.

"Whaddya think, boys, should we have a little fun with 'em?" said Pelter, to the agreement of his cronies. Both twins understood all too well what they meant, and tried even harder to wrestle out of each of their captor's grip.

Stan couldn't budge, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford wiggling out from under the chubby boy's backside. Taking him by surprise, Stanford kicked the boy off, knocking him to the ground. He ran for his brother, attempting to pry him away from the leather-clad bully. Stanley wanted to tell him to watch out behind him, but Ford didn't see Crampelter's fist grab him until it was too late.

"Now, just what do you think you're doing, fingers?" sneered Pelter, lifting Ford up by the scruff of his collar. "Trying to be a hero? Well, tough luck, braveheart, 'cause you just entered a world of pain."

Crampelter grinned, then punched Stanford right in the face. He cried out in pain, and his glasses clattered to the ground. The smaller crony laughed and stomped hard on the glasses until they smashed.

Stan watched in frozen horror as the enormous blond boy continued to strike blow after blow on his trembling and moaning twin, cackling nastily after every clout. Pelter threw Ford down, sending him skidding out on the alley. He next seized Stanley, punching him three times in the stomach and once in the nose before Stan tried to punch back. Pelter simply took hold of his tiny fist and twisted it behind his back.

"Say 'uncle', loser boy, and maybe I'll let you go." he jeered. Stan's eyes watered with the pain, but he was determined not to crack.

"I **said** , say **uncle!** " Pelter twisted harder, and Stanley felt his arm might break with the strain. Eventually, it became just too much, and Stan had to succumb.

"Alright, alright! Uncle! Uncle-uncle-uncle! Lemme go already!"

Crampelter laughed, hurling him down next to his twin, Stanley's elbows scraping upon impact. His thin arms throbbed with discomfort, but he managed to sit up, shaking, tears streaking down his bruised cheeks. Ford was still face down on the ground, quivering; he too was crying softly, although much more audibly than Stan.

"Aww, did I make the wimpy wittle babies cwy?" snorted Pelter, hands on his hips. Stanley's face burned in humiliation.

Crampelter jerked forward, snagging the front of Stanford's collar once again. Ford lifted his swelling and tear-streaked face up to meet Pelter's, looking absolutely terrified.

"Listen close, wise guy," hissed Crampelter, simpering cruelly. "I want ya to remember this the next time you feel like you'll ever be anything but a wimpy, worthless little six-fingered freak who will _never_ make a single friend. Ya understand?" said Pelter, shaking Ford until his teeth rattled.

"I-I-I…" Tears flowed freely down Stanford's face.

Pelter grinned, then punched Ford right in his right eye, knocking him again to the cold cement ground. Stanley watched, loathing as Pelter and his cronies ran off, laughing and shouting insults. He had half a mind to run after them, make them sorry they had ever messed with him or his twin. Low, echoing sobs snapped Stan out of his rage. Next to him, Ford attempted to stand up, but was trembling so violently that it was impossible to maintain balance; Stan had the feeling that it wasn't from getting punched. Stanley managed to pull himself together. Taking a closer look at his brother's face, he could see his eyes and cheeks swelling into purple and black bruises.

"Come on, sixer, let's go home and get some ice or something." said Stan, standing up and reaching out a hand to help up twin. Ford took it, still shaking intensely.

"Y-your nose is bleeding." he said simply.

It was? Stan touched the bottom of his nose, and sure enough, his hand came back wet with blood. He hadn't even noticed.

Suddenly a thought came into his head. "Ford, what about your glasses?" he asked, remembering that they had been broken.

Ford's eyes widened. "Oh crap, oh crap, oh _crap_... Dad's gonna kill me…" he moaned, slapping his forehead but quickly recoiling from the pain.

Stan picked up the mangled frames and a few of the larger bits of glass. "It's okay, Ford, we, uh, just need glue. Lots of it. And probably some tape or something, too… but we can fix them! They'll be good as new in no time."

Ford shook his head sadly. "No Stan, I don't think they can be fixed. Some of the glass was crushed practically to dust, and I don't think all the glue and tape in New Jersey could fix them." He took the frames and put them on, as some cracked, but reasonably sized bits of lens were still in the frame. Stan didn't want to say anything (as he knew that his twin was feeling bad enough), but the smashed glasses only made him look worse.

"Come on, it's getting dark. Ma'll be wondering where we are." The brothers walked out of the alley leaning on each other for support. Stan winced slightly at the pains in his stomach where Pelter had hit him, but knew that now was the time to just suck it up and deal with it.

By the time that they had managed to get home, the sun was dipping into the horizon, the last bits of the day fading. The shop had closed and the front was locked, but a Ford kept a spare key in his jacket. As they walked upstairs, Stan could hear chattering and the clanking of shot glasses. It was poker night, and their father was hosting. Great. Just what they needed, a bunch of Dad's drunk friends seeing them all roughed up. He and Ford exchanged knowing glances; they could _not_ be seen.

They quietly slipped off their shoes at the bottom of the stairs, tiptoeing upstairs in their sock feet, skipping the many squeaky steps. The poker game was in the dining room, and by some small miracle, their father had his back facing them, so Stan and Ford were able to sneak past him.

Too bad the same thing couldn't be said about their mother.

She was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. When she saw her boys creeping past the open kitchen door, she gave a strangled shriek and nearly dropped the coffee pot.

"What on earth…? Boys...oh my land…" She rushed to her sons and clutched them by their shoulders, examining their bruised and bloody faces. Realization swept over her, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

"You got beaten up again, din't ya?" she said, barely audible.

"Um, well, see-"

"Din't ya?"

The twins looked at each other, then their mother. Solemnly, Stan gave a few quick jerks of the head, feeling slightly ashamed now. He could see Ford staring down at his feet, eyes glimmering at the edges.

She sighed walking back into the kitchen, the boys following her, and opened the cupboard above the sink. She pulled out their frequently used first-aid kit, containing peroxide, cotton balls, and plenty of bandages. As Ford looked the worst, he was the first to be treated, him climbing up on top of the counter. Their mother worked in silence, grimacing when she took off his glasses.

"Oh Stanford," she said, disappointed. "This is the fifth pair since September!"

Ford hung his head, looking guilty. Stan felt horrible; this was all his fault… if only he hadn't left Ford alone outside that candy shop…

Suddenly, the door to the dining room banged open, and a heavily muscled man with a white undershirt, red suspenders and a porkpie hat sauntered into the kitchen, holding an empty beer can and laughing at a joke someone told. He turned to the boy's mother, who was just finishing rubbing peroxide over Ford's cheeks.

"Hey Louise, got any more whisk-" He stopped abruptly at the sight of the roughed up twins, staring at them for a bit, then chortled lightly.

"Wha' happened to you, kid? Lose a fight?" He said to Stanley, who was sitting at the table and glaring at him.

"Not now, Frankie. Go back to the game." said 'Louise' rather coldly, continuing to patch up Stanford. Frankie ignored her and gawked at the twins, chuckling irregularly. Stan could smell his breath from a mile away; the man was obviously drunk.

"Bet it was a big kid, eh? Didja fight back, squirt?" Frankie poked Stan in the forehead a few times. It took all his willpower not kick Frankie in the shins.

"Betcha lost, din't cha, kid? Was anyone makin' bets? Heh, heh. They'd lose their money, the suckers. Heh, nice sneezer ya gots there. Hey, hey Filbrick! Hey Filbrick, your kid got in a fight! Commin' see!"

"What're ya talking about, my kids ain't even home!" called a gruff voice from behind the swinging door.

"Yeah they is, 'en this one's got one heckuva shnozz…"

The door opened, and their father walked in, accompanied by one or two of his poker buddies. He took one look at his sons and froze. Filbrick's gaze shifted from Stan to Ford, and his mustache twitched. Fists clenched, he turned to his wife.

"Just what the devil happened here?"

She sighed. "Filbrick, please don't lose your temper."

"I asked you, _what happened here_?"

"I'm not too sure myself. All I know is that they came home looking like this, dunno why, 'en that they need to get cleaned up 'fore it all gets infected. Please don't lookit me like that, hon."

He grunted, glaring at his boys. Then, he wheeled around to face his friends, who were eyeballing the twins like they were an interesting exhibit at the zoo.

"Game's canceled. Take your money and go home. We'll resume next week."

"Ah, what? Is this 'cuz your brats got beat up or sompin'?" said a tall, wiry man with a limp cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "'Snot our fault they look like they lost an argument with a wood chipper, Brick."

Filbrick didn't answer, instead just glaring at the men fiercely. They got the message and left the kitchen, grumbling. Stan could hear them gathering their things as loudly as possible, then finally slamming the back door. Their father then turned to the twins. Stan felt very hot under the collar all of a sudden, the feeling he got whenever he was caught misbehaving. Was Dad going to ground them? Send them to their room? Stanley desperately hoped that he wasn't getting a spanking. He hadn't been belted in two years and preferred to keep it that way.

"Explain to me," he said, low and dangerous. "Why you two come home every other week looking like you got hired to be some neanderthal's punching bag?"

Neither of the boys answered. For years before, they had managed to hide the fact that Ford was considered a freak, and that neither really had any other friends besides each other. It was easy, hiding the pain of the words shot at them, and if Dad ever witnessed someone teasing them, he never seemed to care much, just shrugging it off as 'kids will be kids'. But ever since the bullies had taken to using the twins as a way to sharpen their knuckles, about a year or two ago, it had been steadily growing harder to conceal the abuse, especially with the costs of buying Ford new glasses every time they broke.

Dad paced back and forth across the small kitchen, hands behind his back, mustache bristling. Stan began to sweat in anxiety; he _hated_ it when his father acted like this, delaying their disciplinary fate. He suddenly became very interested in his feet, not daring to look at his father.

"That's it."

Stanley found the courage to look up and almost said something, but his mother got there first. "What's it? What're ya talking about, Filbrick?"

"I've had enough of this. I don't know how you kids keep ending up like this, but I don't care, it ends now."

Stan was very confused. How did he expect it to end, just like that? His father often made steep demands, but this was nuts.

"Honey, you ain't making sense. Whaddaya mean, 'it ends now'?"

"I mean, _it ends now._ I'm sick of paying for new glasses and first-aid kits. If you boys can't stay out of trouble, the least you'll be able to do is learn to defend yourselfs."

Now Stan was really puzzled. What did he think was going to happen, they'd just read up on Kung Fu or something and suddenly be unstoppable? (okay, maybe Ford could do that, but definitely not Stanley.)

"And just how do you suggest we make that happen?" said Mom crossly, folding her arms in front of herself defensively.

"Same way I learned it. Starting Monday, yous two are learning to box, and I don't care if it takes all summer to toughen you up. Heck, I don't care if it takes ten years."

The color in their mother's face drained away. "... Boys, go to your room."

"B-but Mom-"

"Your room!"

The twins obeyed, scurrying off to their shared bedroom. Curiosity won them over, and they couldn't help but listen at the door. Their parent's voices were slightly muffled, but still within earshot.

"Whaddaya thinking, Filbrick? They already come home hurt every other week, I don't wanna have them get beat up every day!"

"They won't get beat up if they learn to defend themselves!"

"They're only children!"

"They're thirteen, Louise! That's old enough to learn how to fight!"

"But-"

"End of discussion! If those little wimps don't toughen up now, they'll be weak for the rest of their lives!"

 _(sigh)_ "Filbrick…"

"No, Louise. I'm putting my foot down. Those kids are going to learn to fight if it's the last thing they do."

…

 **Well, I promised angst, so there you go. Keep in mind, basically every other chapter in this is going to involve boxing, so there will be mentions of blood and lots of descriptions of pain. If you're squeamish about such things, it's probably best if you stop reading. I might also change the rating from K+ to T if I have to.**

 **The overall plot is going to kicking in about now, so buckle up, kiddos.**


	4. So things CAN get worse

**Shout out to Scarlet Scribe's story 'Nothing in the World', which greatly inspired this first scene down here. Go check it out, it's really good.**

 **DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.**

…

Stanford couldn't sleep.

New Jersey summers were always choked with humidity, especially at night. There was no breeze- just a sticky, burning heat that felt nearly unbearable. Ford let out an exasperated sigh. He tossed his sheets to the side, bunching them up against the wall, then rolled over, trying in vain to cool down. Stanford wished his father would invest in a ceiling fan or an air conditioner, but those were apparently 'for sissies'.

A lot of things seemed to be 'sissy' to his father these days. Like him. And Stanley. All that morning, his father had been dragging them around town, signing papers and practically buying out the utility shop at the Uppercut Boxing Gym. While they were there, he had taken a peek at some of the fighters practising. Sweet _Einstein_ , those guys were big. And strong. And kind of mean-looking. And he and Stan were supposed to go there in the morning. Perhaps he should begin writing up his will.

"I know you're still awake, Ford."

"Huh?" he said, snapping out of his reminise. "Oh… uh, yeah." He leaned over the side of his bunk, staring down at his brother. "How could you tell?"

"Uh, I can only hear you moving around up there like _every two seconds_." said Stanley, a tinge of annoyance in his tone.

"Oh. Sorry."

A silence fell over them for an uncomfortable amount of time. Ford thought that Stan had fallen asleep, until his voice rang out, startling him slightly.

"So you're nervous too, huh?"

Sometimes Stanford wondered if he and Stanley had that twin ESP thing he had read about. This was one of those times.

"... kind of."

Another long silence.

"... me too."

Ford breathed a sigh of relief. Knowing that he wasn't the only one freaking out about the next day made him feel a tiny bit better. But only a tiny bit.

"... um, Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"Can... can we talk?"

"Sure. Not like I'm gonna sleep anyway. Wait a minute." Ford could hear the bottom bunk give a sharp creak, and a small grunt as his brother pulled himself onto the top bunk. He sat against the wall, legs crossed.

"So… what's up?"

Ford gulped, then turned to look his brother in the eye. "Stanley… do you think they're right?"

"Who's 'they'?"

"Dad. And Crampelter."

Stan gave him a puzzled expression. "What're you talking about, Stanford? Crampelter's never right about anything, and Dad… can you explain what you're trying to say?"

"Do you think they're right about… about us being wimps?"

No answer. Then a shaky chuckle, and Stan punched him playfully in the arm.

"Come on, bro. Be serious. Those… those jerks don't know anything." Stanley's voice faltered somewhat, and he turned away from Ford's view for a moment.

Ford stared at him. "I _am_ being serious, Stanley. What if they're right? I mean, Dad wouldn't make us do this if he didn't think we needed it. Lessons must cost a lot of money…"

Stan snorted. "Dad's just trying to torture us or something. Don't worry about it, Fordster. They don't know anything. Besides, boxing might be… well, not fun probably, but at least we'll be doing it together."

"You mean it?"

" 'Course I mean it. Now go to sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow." He climbed down the ladder back to his bunk, leaving Ford alone.

 _Stop worrying,_ he thought, flipping over his pillow to the cool side. _Boxing might not be that bad. And even if it is, Stan'll be right there by my side._

 _After all, we are brothers._

 **...**

"C'mon, boys, time to get up."

Ford awoke to his mother shaking him and the sun in his eyes. "Fi' more minnits, ma…" he mumbled groggily, pulling the covers over his head.

"Nope, you gotta get up now." she said firmly, yanking the sheets off the bed. Ford rubbed his eyes and stared blurrily out across the room. Remembering that today was his and Stanley's first day of boxing, he attempted to burrow his head underneath his pillow and pretend he didn't exist. Below him, he could hear Mom arguing with Stan.

"Stanley, get up."

"...No."

"Now, Stanley."

"Iz summer. Not getting up."

"Your lessons start in forty-five minutes! You're going to be late!"

"Gud."

"No, not good. Your father and I are paying good money for these here boxing lessons-"

Ford heard Stan sit up. "And did I ask you to? No! So why do I gotta-"

"Don't you argue with me, young man! Now get out of bed, right this instant! You will not eat until you are dressed and ready to leave!"

She left the room in a huff, slamming the door. When he felt it was safe, Stanford jumped down from the top, landing gracefully between a hunk of unidentifiable clutter. Stan was sitting cross-legged on top of his covers, looking mutinous. Grumbling under his breath, Stan eventually got up and reluctantly peeled off his pajamas and swapping them with street clothes.

"Hey, remember what you told me last night?" said Ford, pulling on a pair of white tube socks. His twin only grunted in reply. Stanford continued, knowing that trying to exert a good mood out from Stanley now wouldn't help anything.

"No matter what, even if boxing turns out to be miserable, we'll still be doing it together, right?" said Ford, setting his hand on his brother's shoulder in what he thought would be a reassurance (he wasn't so great with the whole emotions thing). Stan stared at the ground, then nodded, attempting one of his lopsided grins.

"Sure thing, bro." said Stan, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He picked up his empty school book bag and began to stuff it with all his new boxing gear, Stanford doing the same with his own backpack. They walked down to the kitchen together, where their mother was setting out two bowls of cornflakes.

"Good, you're dressed." she said, nodding. "Orange juice is in the fridge, and I think we still have some sausages left if you want 'em. Hurry and eat, though. The gym is seven blocks away and we don't got money for the bus."

Wait, seriously? They were going to _walk_? Gee, thanks Dad. Now not only were they going to most likely be pummeled into oblivion, their legs could fall off too. Just peachy.

The boys crunched their breakfast in stoic silence, both feeling that this whole situation was incredibly unfair. Their father had put them through some pretty tough shenanigans over the years, but forcing them to get in a ring with kids who could knock them into next week? That was crossing the line. When they finished their breakfast, the twins snatched up their knapsacks and were about to leave when Mom gestured them over to where she was sitting in the living room.

"Listen boys," she said, setting her hands on their shoulders. "I know that yous two ain't crazy about doing this. I'm not either. But your father really thinks this could be good for you, that you can learn something from this. And I think… I think it might be nice for you to try. New experiences are good for yous, ya know?

Ford sighed. "Sure, Ma."

"Whatever you say." said Stan.

She gave them a weak, yet reassuring sort of smile before patting them on their shoulders. "Off you go now. Wouldn't wanna be late, huh?"

" _Nope._ " said Stan on their way out the door, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We _really_ wouldn't want to be late for our _death sentence_ , now would we?"

The boys didn't talk much on the walk to the gym, neither really in the mood for conversation. Stanford didn't really know what he was in the mood for, actually. Hiding sounded like a good idea. So did packing his belongings and catching the next freight to Canada with Stan.

Ford was so lost in thought that he didn't realize that he and his brother had arrived until he walked right into the glass front door. When Stanley didn't comment, or even laugh, he realized just how anxious his twin really was about all this.

Ford got up off the pavement and stared up at the sign in the front window: _Uppercut Boxing Gym and Sporting Equipment_. A photograph of a pair of red, laced up boxing gloves sat beside the text. Ford clenched his teeth and pushed his slipping glasses back up his nose. They were really doing this. Oh gosh, they were really doing this.

Stan nudged his arm. "Ladies first, poindexter."

"Heh, shut up."

They walked in together, holding their breaths. Inside was exactly the same as it was the day before, but it felt… different. More real. Inside was a front desk that might've belonged to a secretary, but for the moment it sat empty. The boys followed the sounds of coaching whistles and pounding punching bags into a worn-down, but spacious gym. On the perimeter walls were a border of bleachers, dejected-looking boys crowding the space. Hanging from the ceiling were about a dozen battered red punching bags with a couple of brawny teenagers beating the snot out of them; on the walls were posters of various boxing equipment and some 'inspirational' boxing stars with words like 'strong' or 'power' as captions. On the ground around the ring were strips of white duct tape laid close together (why, Stanford could only guess). The centerpiece of the gym was a dirty, dark gray ring raised up from the ground, bungee cord-like ropes framing the sweaty mats. Two boys, about sixteen or seventeen by the looks of it were duking it out in the ring, fists flying, repellently hypnotizing.

"You kids need something?"

The twins jumped, startled. They turned around to face a towering, muscular man with a stern grimace and brown buzzcut. He wore a red sweatshirt hoodie and boxing shorts, a glinting whistle sitting atop his husky chest, fists on his hips.

"Y-yessir." said Stanford, stammering a bit. He and Stanley gave each other knowing glances; this was their last chance to chicken out of boxing.

"Would you care to tell me what that something _is?_ " said the man, leaning in close.

Ford gulped. He opened his mouth to answer, but Stan blurted out his own version before him. "Yessirwe'reherefortheboxinglessonssirwe'rethirteensoweneedtoknowwheretogosirandthat'sitsirsirsir!"

The man was unimpressed. "Is that all?"

"Yessir."

He sighed. "You said you were thirteen, huh? Names?"

Ford spoke this time. "Stanley and Stanford Pines."

The man pulled out a clipboard and gave it a quick once-over. "Yep, here you are. Locker room's thataway, go change into your uniforms. Your locker number is number fifteen and the combination is 0-6-18. I'm Coach Ferguson, and your group lessons begin in ten minutes, so hustle up."

They nodded in unison and scrambled to get to the locker room. It was like stepping into a tornado of noise; all around were boys of seemingly all ages. Ford could spot some as young as seven, others about eighteenish. They were all talking, shouting, snapping towels like whips, or otherwise being as loud as humanly possible. The boys quietly made it to their assigned locker, succeeding in their attempt to go unnoticed.

"And you call _me_ a suck up." smirked Ford.

"I just panicked, okay? I went into survival mode!"

"Survival mode sure includes a lot of 'sirs'."

"You shut your yap." Stan hissed, snapping on his headgear.

They dressed in relative silence, sneaking out of the locker room unheeded. They grabbed a spot in the back of the bleachers, where some other boys their age were filing in. Stanford recognized a few from school, but on the whole they were all strangers. The trickle of kids slowed to a stop around five minutes later, and Coach Ferguson blew his whistle, shattering Ford's eardrums.

"Listen up, you lot!" he shouted, his booming voice filling the gym. "Some of you already know me from your previous lessons. Others of you have never stepped into this ring in your life. Not for long. Today is the day you leave every namby-pampy momma's boy thing behind and enter the toughest place you'll ever go: the boxing ring. I assume that everyone here has a mouthguard with them?" The group nodded in unison, some holding out their mouthguards to prove it.

"Good. You'll need them. Now, first thing's first, everyone drop and give me fifteen push ups!" A unanimous gran rang out throughout the class, but Coach was having none of it.

"Enough bellyaching about it! On the floor, fifteen push ups, let's go! One… up!" Stanford's arms began to tremble around the second or third push up, and he finally collapsed at five. Stanley didn't fare much better; he buckled at six.

"Pitiful." said Ferguson to the twins. "No matter. By the time I'm through with you kids, you'll be strong as a pack of bulls. Get up." Ford doubted that he'd ever be strong as just one bull, much less a pack of them, but Coach sounded so serious that it was scary.

"I want the advanced kids, ones who have actually boxed before, to break off into pairs and start some sparring drills over in the ring. Remember to use the gloves, we're not doing any bare-knuckle boxing in this gym. Beginners, you stay here." A little more than half the group split off to the ring, but the twins stuck with the other beginners. Once all of them were gathered together, Coach turned to them, a pair of brown gloves laced up on his beefy fists, standing on top of a strip of duct tape.

"Everyone have their gloves on? Good. The first thing you'll be learning is the basic stance. This is possibly the most important thing you'll ever learn, as it is the basis for just about every other move there is. The proper stance has your front toe and back heel on the center line- you'll find it on the floor- with your dominant hand in back." He stood with his fists raised and elbows down. "Your weight is distributed evenly across both legs, knees slightly bent. Feet are diagonal, little wider than your shoulder width apart, and back heel raised. Now you try."

Ford awkwardly raised his gloved fists and tried to remember everything Coach had said. _Okay, so front toe and heel on the line, knees bent… what else?_ He glanced over to his brother, who also seemed to be having some difficulty with the instructions. Coach walked around the class correcting stances, and it wasn't long before he came to the twins.

"Not like that. Keep your weight even, like this. Your head is behind your gloves, chin down just so that your eyes can see over the gloves. Knees bent. There you go." Stan copied him and got it pretty much right, if a bit shakily. Ford was getting a little frustrated, not sure where to hold his hands. Straight in front felt natural.

"No, no, kid, you can't have your fists completely even. Keep them balanced, with your dominant hand in back. You a southpaw or an orthodox?" Ford stared blankly at him with no clue of what he meant.

"Are you a leftie or a rightie?"

"I'm ambidextrous."

"Wassat, an illness?" interrupted Stan from the side. "Is it contagious?"

"No, it's when you can use either hand equally-" He was cut off by Coach Ferguson clearing his throat.

"Let's just say you're a rightie. Well, now you're an orthodox. Lefties are called southpaws. Keep your dominant hand- in this case, the orthodox- closest to you, with your southpaw in front. That's better. Relax, and just breath. You don't need to be so tense." Understanding was coming to Ford, albeit slowly. Coach moved to help another kid and left the twins alone to practise. After he had helped everyone, Coach moved back up to the front and blew his whistle.

"Does everyone get how this works?" he asked, to general affirmation. "Any questions?... Yeah, you. In the back. "

"When are we gonna start punching?" said a large, chubby boy. "I wanna hit something!" He pounded his chunky fist into his other hand for emphasis, and Coach gave a light chuckle.

"Not for another few lessons, kid. If there aren't any more questions, we'll move on. The next thing we'll working on is our footwork."

"Footwork? I thought we were supposed to hit things in boxing!" whispered Stanley to Ford.

"You absolutely need to master the step-drag and pivot maneuvers to get good in boxing." said the coach. "This type of movement may seem difficult at first because a lot of people have a habit of always jumping off the ground. In boxing, you want to keep your feet down on the ground so you're always ready to attack, defend, or move away." Coach Ferguson stepped into his stance, holding his fists up. "The technique you'll be learning is the step-drag. The first thing to do is stand in your stance, the one we just learned." The students all stepped into their stances, Stanford still a little shaky.

"Now step the front foot, and drag your back foot. Step, drag. Step, drag. Keep up your stance. It's easy." Ford tested it, pleased to find that it was indeed very simple.

"To go forward or left, step with your left foot first and then drag the right foot after." said Ferguson, demonstrating as he spoke. "To go backward or right, step with your right foot first and then drag the left foot after." This was much easier than the stance, and Ford found himself enjoying the movement.

"Everyone get into pairs and help each other practise your stances and footwork while I go check on the intermediates. Try any funny business and you'll regret it." He strutted over to the other side of the ring, leaving the novice boxers alone. Stan and Ford immediately paired up; Ford was grateful he had a friend in this class, noticing that some of the boys were having trouble finding a partner.

"So…" said Stan awkwardly. "What should we do?"

"What the coach said, duh. Weren't you listening?"

"I'd rather not answer that question right now."

Ford sighed. Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

…

By the time the lesson was over, the sun was hot and high in the sky. They had spent four hours at the gym, practicing footwork and stances, not to mention the dozens of push ups and sit ups that Coach put them through. Stanford was an achy, sweaty mess by the time he and Lee got out of the locker room, and wanted nothing more than to go home, splash some cold water on his face, and never do anything ever again. He could tell that his twin felt the same, and didn't blame him one bit. But now they had to walk home. If he had any of his allowance left, Ford would splurge and pay for the bus. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, and he and his brother were forced to either trek the way home, or spend the rest of their lives at the gym, and _that_ wasn't gonna happen.

Stanley slung his full knapsack over his back and grunted to Ford to hurry up. They walked in mutual silence out of the locker room, neither possessing the energy or will to speak, period, much less make conversation. The boys had just passed the still-empty secretary's desk when a pudgy figure a little taller than them appeared, blocking the doorway.

"Dude, move." said Stan, obviously not in the mood for any more irritation.

"Make me." said the boy, smirking arrogantly.

Okay, this kid was a jerk. "Just move, man." said Ford, seriously peeved at this point.

"Come over here and make me move if you wanna get through, freak." Ford stiffened at the name, and he saw Stan clench his fists.

"You want me to make you? Suit yourself." Stanley attempted to shove the kid aside, but he barely made him stumble. The boy laughed, sounding like a hee-hawing donkey.

"That all you got, wimp?" He pushed Stan, hard. If the secretary's desk wasn't behind him, Stan would've fallen right on his butt. That did it.

"Hey, what's your problem, man? Just let us through the stupid door!" asked Stanford, angry. The boy gave another infuriating smirk.

"Name's Eddie Harris. Crampelter's one of my buddies, and he's told me lots about the Pines twins. He heard that yous was signing up for boxing lessons and told me to look for a wussy boy who only talks tough and his nerdy, six-fingered brother." Eddie punched Ford in the stomach, sending him back with Stan against the desk.

"Coach may have said that we ain't allowed to punch yet, but maybe for you geeks I'll make an exception. Heh heh, boxing's gonna be a whole lot more fun now. See ya around, loser twins." Eddie gave another donkey-like laugh, striding arrogantly out the door.

Stanford picked himself up off the floor, his gut aching where Eddie had hit him. Beside him, Stanley got up as well and looked like he wanted to run after the jerk, but Ford held him back.

"Just let it go, Stanley. He's not… not worth it." said Ford. "Let's just go home, okay?" He looked as if he wanted to argue, but Stan just sighed and nodded. They trudged out of the gym, blinking in the bright afternoon sun.

 _Okay, I was wrong._ thought Ford.

 _Things CAN get worse._

 **...**

 **Wow, ten pages on Google Docs, new record!**

 **If you guys are having any trouble figuring out the boxing terms (not right now, but definitely later on), I found a** **handy-dandy website** **explaining the jargon I'll be using in this story.**

 **I know very little about boxing at the moment, but that's one of the things I love about writing. Whenever I write about a new topic (such as boxing), it gives a chance to research it in depth, and usually by the time I finish the story I've learned enough to not act like a brainless noob if the conversation turns to the thing I've researched. So by the time 'A Summer of Two Stans', I should know enough about boxing to at least be able to watch the sport and know what's going on.**

 **If you're enjoying this story, please favorite and follow!**

 **If you're not enjoying this story, please review and tell me your thoughts.**


	5. Hook, Line, and Sunk

**DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.**

…

"C'mon Pines, keep your guard up! Look for a weak spot!"

Stanley stood in the ring, sparring with a tall, scrawny boy with pimples. The kid didn't look like much, but he could hit fast and hard- Stan learned that little tidbit the less pleasant way. He swung aimlessly, barely grazing the boy's arm. He was rewarded with a sock in the stomach that knocked the wind out of him. He was struggling for breath as he crashed to the ground on his back.

"Alright Pines, you're done. Acceptable effort with the KO, Miller, but your footwork stands for some improvement. Seymour and Evans, you're up!"

Stan stepped out of the ring, rubbing his sore gut. It had been three days since they started punching practice, and since then (with the help of Ford's thesaurus), he had discovered that there were exactly one hundred and twenty-seven different words in the English language that meant 'pain'. Not one of them could accurately describe what he went through every day.

For the past week since he and his brother had begun lessons, Stan had been seriously considering the option of legal emancipation (Ford had told him about it). There had to be some kind of law or something against forcing your poor, unarmed kid into the hellhole that was boxing lessons. Child abuse, probably. Yeah, this totally counted as child abuse.

Stanley trudged to the bleachers and plopped himself down next to Ford, who had already sparred.

"Better luck next time, right?" Stanford said, trying weakly to smile but only managing to look like he was constipated. That black eye Eddie gave him yesterday still hadn't faded.

Eddie. When he had said that boxing was going to be more fun with the twins around, Stan had gotten the impression that he was either a compulsive liar or only thinking of himself; he was going with the latter, seeing as the scumbag was always grinning whenever he had a chance to beat up the twins. Glad to see that Eddie was enjoying himself so.

"Time! Good job, Seymour. Evans, work on your accuracy." said Coach Ferguson. "Has everyone had a chance to spar in the ring? Good. Everyone get into pairs and practice the slow sparring technique. I'll be coming around to make sure you're doing it right."

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Stan got up and walked over to a duct taped line with Ford. Coach had said that this drill was supposed to give them faster reaction times and help them adapt to and develop different styles. Pfft, like he really cared; Stan just wanted to get out of that ring with all his limbs intact.

He and Ford halfheartedly went through the motions of the drill, not really trying all that hard. Stan stared aimlessly out the dusty window above the bleachers at the bright summer sun. How he would like to be out working on the Stan 'O War…

"Pines, pay attention!"

Stan jumped and spun around to face a very displeased coach. For a second, Stan thought the man was going to hit him (after all, this _was_ a boxing gym, he wouldn't exactly be out of line). But instead, Coach Ferguson just shook his head and stared pointedly down at the twins.

"That's it. This is ridiculous." he said. "You two are just slowing each other down. From now on, you're not partners."

"What? But you- you can't-" sputtered Stan.

"I just did. Harris, Martinez, get over here!" hollered Coach. Eddie and a dark-haired boy stopped their practice and scurried over.

"Yeah, Coach?" asked Eddie.

"You four are swapping sparring partners for today. You, with the glasses, you're with Martinez. Harris, you spar with the other twin. And I don't wanna see you twins practicing together unless I tell you to, capishe?"

The boys exchanged anxious glances, Ford silently sending the message, _good luck._ Stan tried to send the message, _I'll need it._ He turned towards Eddie's leering face, trying to act brave.

"Ready to start, _partner?_ " smirked Eddie, moving into his stance. Stan trembled, but put on a bold facade.

"Do your worst, turd bucket." snarled Stan. Eddie made a horrible half-smile, half-grimace that sent shivers down Stan's spine.

"Heh. You asked for it, sissy boy." Eddie threw a sharp jab to Stanley's shoulder. _Ouch_. But Stan refused to show weakness to this pinhead. He swung with as with strength as he could muster, but Eddie only stepsided his blow, sending Stan tumbling forward with the force he had used. Great. Now his dignity was officially out the window.

Stan got up, embarrassed and absolutely furious with himself. Three more times he swung, and three more times Eddie dodged, snorting and snickering with every failed punch. He was about to jump on the kid and pound him into the ground when he felt a strong, firm hand hold him back.

"Hold it, tiger." said Coach. "I don't think you understand this. We are not trying to tear our partners apart with power hits. We are **sparring**. This is practice, not the Golden Gloves. And even if it was a match, that is _not_ the way you punch, unless you like falling on your face."

"I dunno, Coach, I think Stanny here likes falling on his face. He does it often enough." Eddie let out another donkey-like laugh. Stan was really starting to hate that stupid laugh.

"Zip it, Harris. Pines, get up. Enough with practice, we've got a lesson to get to." Peachy. With his luck, it'd just be another excuse for him to humiliate himself or for Eddie to punch his lights out.

"Alright men, today we'll be working on our hooks. A hook is just a fancy word for a basic punch, but like many of the basic moves, it can prove to be critical in a fight. I've been noticing that a few of you," He glanced at Stanley. "Are sorely in need of practice on this skill. To perform a hook, you simply swing your arm, which should be bent at an angle near or at 90 degrees, in a horizontal arc into your opponent. A hook is usually aimed at the chin, but it can also be used for body shots, especially to the liver, which is just above the stomach."

 _Called it._

"Any experienced fighter can tell you the hook to the body can be the most painful punch you will ever feel. It cripples your body from the inside, paralyzes your legs, and takes away your will to fight. But worst of all- _hooks to the body can knock you out but leave you conscious to feel the pain_."

Stan felt Eddie's eyes boring into his back. Nervous sweat began to trickle down his forehead.

"Nowadays, all fighters are taught to throw hooks to the body but very few are taught how to set them up. They think setting up body hooks means slipping a punch and coming inside. They're half right, but they're still missing one key ingredient. This is something I myself took years to figure out.

"The proper setup determines whether you slip in safely to land your hook OR get crushed under your opponent and countered. Everyone pair up again, you need a partner for this exercise." Stan quickly stood next to the same scrawny kid he had fought earlier in the ring, grateful that he had this time evaded Eddie.

"Seymour, come on up here. I need an opponent." A pimply, black haired boy with a sallow complexion gulped and trudged to the front of the room, looking thoroughly terrified. _Hey, I'd feel the same way if I was the poor sap up there._ thought Stan. _But better him than me._

Coach Ferguson positioned Seymour so that the two were facing each other, their sides to the other students. He positioned himself in his stance, and Seymour copied him.

"The secret to slipping inside for a hook is to set up the slip, like so. I set up the slip by moving my head to the right. I'm trying to get him to throw a long right hand. I want him to stretch over to reach my head. If his body follows his punch, he will fall over to the side instead of falling into me when he misses." He demonstrated in slow motion with Seymour. "I know it looks like I'm leaning back with my weight on my back foot but it's not. My weight is actually balanced, with maybe slightly more weight on the back foot. I tilt my head to the right but in reality, I'm trying to keep it as close to the center as possible. The trick is to make it look like you're way off to the side without actually taking yourself off center. The closer you are to the center, the easier it is to cut across the center and slip to the other side. Seymour, try and throw a hit to my head."

The kid did as he was told, stretching out his right arm completely. Coach easily dodged the punch.

"Notice how my body is still upright. I've got my legs and balance under me. I've got more control over my body and more power to counter with. Now look at my opponent. Look at how stretched out he is. Look at how powerful my stance is compared to how vulnerable my opponent looks. I can slip under his stretched out arm and land a solid left hook to the body." Coach punched Seymour lightly in the chest. "Right after you land the left hook to the body, follow it up. Throw rights followed by more left hooks. You don't have to exit until he throws his left hook, which you can slip and counter with a right hook on his other side. Making your opponent throw longer punches gives you more time to slip and a bigger target to hit. Any questions?"

The kid Stan was partnered with raised his hand. "What if who you're fighting doesn't throw the long right hand?" he asked.

"Good question." said Coach. "When that happens, one idea is to keep throwing the jab to force him to counter with the long right hand. Likewise, you can throw your right hand to force him to throw the left hook. Now everyone face your partners. I want you to practice slipping in and setting up for a left hook."

Stan turned to Miller, his partner, and moved into his stance. Remembering what Coach had said, he moved his head to the right, but when Miller didn't throw the long right punch, he got flustered.

 _Okay, so I just keep jabbing… then what?_ He kept jabbing at his opponent, trying and failing to force him to throw the hook. Miller seemed to be working at the same technique. The two kept jabbing at each other, neither able to make the slip. Coach blew his whistle, and everyone stopped the exercise.

"Good job, everyone. For first timers, you all did pretty well." said Coach. "I've worked with enough boxers to know that throwing the left hook is a difficult punch to master for some fighters and an easy punch to master for others. The good news is that the left hook can be taught, and I intend to have all of you comfortable with this move by the time I'm through with you. We're going to be working on this move for the rest of the week, until Saturday's match. I want all of you to be practicing at home if you're having trouble."

Wait… Saturday's match? No one told him about any match. Stan began to panic. He couldn't compete in any match. No way. He could barely keep up his stance, much less throw a decent punch. The other kids would eat him alive.

 _Especially Eddie._

…

After much thought and methods of deduction, Stanford had come to the only reasonable conclusion. Contrary to what Stan had suggested, their father was, in fact, not trying to torture them.

Their father was trying to kill them.

Ford had been seriously hating life this past week. Why? Well, for one, it was only made embarrassingly obvious just how physically uncoordinated he was. Hey, his brain could bench press 250- but around here, he couldn't even hold his fists the right way.

His whole body felt sore all the time now; it was agony just to sit up in bed sometimes. Things had only gotten worse when they had begun punching. These kids could hit _hard_ , dang it. So when Coach announced that the next Saturday would be their first match, Stanford felt more than a little nervous. Completely and utterly terrified seemed to fit the description, though.

On the bright side, at least Dad didn't seem to have a clue about the match, so at least he wouldn't be there to see them get knocked into next week. The last thing Ford wanted was for his father to look at him like he was disappointed in the fact that he was born. But being completely honest here, Ford sometimes got frustrated with that little tidbit, too.

But at least Stanley was in the same boat he was. Sure, it probably sounded really selfish, but in a way it comforted Stanford that he wasn't alone in his problems with boxing. Stan was like him, hating this sport to its very core, except that he had a slightly louder opinion on the matter (since they had begun lessons, his ranting sessions had upgraded from memorable to legendary). It was actually kind of scary how similar they were at times. Especially when it came to their enemies.

Ford used to think that having Crampelter constantly on their tail was punishment for some horrible crime he and his twin might've committed in a past life or something. But now he understood. Pelter was just an appetizer.

Eddie Harris was the main course.

Good glory, that kid was scary. He was at least half a foot taller than them, and chubby enough to be ten pounds heavier than him. The only weakness Ford had noticed about him was that he was slow, but that trait was basically cancelled out due to the power and accuracy in his punches.

Not to mention that Eddie had a mean streak that seemed to be targeted specifically for him and Stan. At least at school, Crampelter and his buddies would at least have half a chance of being caught and punished whenever they decided to use the twins as their personal punching bags. But here? Knocking other kids' lights out was what you were _supposed_ to do. It was when you cowered in fear and begged for mercy that you got into real trouble.

And everything had just been made a million times worse with the fact that Coach had banned him and Stan from ever being sparring partners again. Stan was the only one who wouldn't give him bruises that lasted a week, and he knew that it was the same the other way around. It just wasn't fair.

When Coach let them go after practice that day, instead of being relieved, Stanford's head was filled with anxious worries. How were he and Stanley going to live through the match? How was he going to survive without his brother as a partner? Did he have enough money in his savings to move to Alaska?

"Hey Fordster, what're ya thinking about?" asked Stanley on the walk home.

Ford snapped out of his thoughts. "Nothing," he said, staring at his feet.

"Come on, you can tell me."

"Nah, it's nothing."

"Lemme guess- you're worried about the match."

Ford looked up, a bit surprised. "How'd you guess?"

"Please bro, it's written all over your face."

"Oh." Ford hadn't realized that he had such a crummy poker face. They walked in awkward quiet until they reached home.

"Boys, go wash up." called their mother from the kitchen. "Dinner's in ten minutes."

"Sure, Mom." the two replied simultaneously. They quickly washed their hands and scurried to the table, eager for something to fill their stomachs.

"So how was your day?" asked their mother, spooning some cassarole onto each of their plates. Ford shrugged, not really sure how to answer without spilling the beans about the match.

"Meh."

"Just meh, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Whadda bout you, Stanley? Was your day 'meh' too?"

Stan shrugged, picking at his cassarole. Ford wolfed down his dinner, deeming it unadvisable to open his mouth again. He heard from downstairs his father locking up the pawn shop. A minute later the door to the kitchen swung open and Filbrick Pines sauntered in, his face void of expression as usual. He pulled up a chair and sat down, their mother setting a filled plate in front of him. He muttered some thanks, then began to eat in silence.

"Oh come on, something interesting must've happened today." she said as she sat down, setting a napkin on her lap.

"Nope. Nothing interesting." said Stan flatly.

"Okay then, I believe ya'."

They spent the rest of the meal quietly, their mother no longer bothering to make small talk. After dinner, their father sat down to watch the news, and the boys slunk back to their shared room. Neither spoke, but they didn't need to. Sometimes Ford wondered if the twin ESP thing was real.

It was times like this that he knew.

 **So sorry for the long wait! I've been really busy with finals and with co-writing another fanfiction with a friend. Believe me, as soon as school is out (June 17th, for me), the chapters will be less far between.**

 **Just a note- that thing about that there's exactly one hundred and twenty seven different words for pain? Yeah. That's true. I didn't just make up that number.**


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